What are you? Iāve been trying to find out for a long time now. Youāre this thing that is so great yet so small. So mysterious, yet so obvious. Youāre driving me insane.
Iāve come to terms with my mind but still Iām searching for my soul. I canāt seem to understand what is inside me. I fell jumbled like a kaleidoscope. Like an image you canāt stop staring at. But no matter how hard you try the shapes just donāt make sense.
My mind is full of darkness. As much as Iād like to think itās not, and that Iām a good person. Iām just fooling myself. It starts with the struggle of never being able to figure out exactly who I was supposed to be. You know those teen years where everyone just goes off and discovers who they are. I just never moved. I stayed still in one spot not doing anything and expecting everything to just happen.
Itās easy to find things you like, things you love, and thingās you hate. Itās easy to observe the world and formulate opinions about it. Itās easy to see everyone else and understand them, even if they donāt understand themselves. Itās all about actions versus words. You can say one thing, but then do the total opposite. I find those to be the worst type of people. Which is why I feel sad to be part of that particular group.
I become anguished anytime I am able to place myself somewhere I despise. It makes me think that maybe I should change, but frankly I donāt know how. I donāt necessarily have the support necessary for that. Itās not within me, and it doesnāt come from a third party either. Itās all about surrounding yourself with the right kind of ambiance in order to have a persuasion of betterment. Not to fit in necessarily, but in order to feel at peace with oneself. Being able to sleep at night knowing you are a good person who does good things.
I currently cannot sleep. Not at night at least. My mind is full of the has been, and they donāt let me rest. Iād like to think itās not about changing things, but the more I find myself thinking, the more I realize that I wish I could in fact change many things from the past, and maybe make a better future. Not for myself in particular, although that is how it stared out, but for other people.
In the beginning it was the thought of going back to change my birth. Either preventing it or keeping my parents together for the sake of me. Then it became about stopping my dadās second marriage. At first for myself, to keep her away from my dad and me. Then recently it became about my siblings and the way she treats them. Wishing they wouldnāt have to go through everything she puts them through. Afterwards that became about how both my dad and her make them feel. Iād give my life to keep them out of that pain. It scares me that they might not be as strong as I have been, and may I mention Iām barely hanging by a thread.
At one point it became about going back just far enough to change the decisions I made myself that got me here at this moment. Thereās a whole separate notebook of what and how I would do things if given the chance. Of course that being if I were able to keep conscious knowledge pf what has already happened. If not Iād probably just make the same mistakes again.
Thereās one thing I donāt regret, and thatās meeting My Choo. I wish I were a better person, in order to help him be whatever it is he would want to be. He says he wouldnāt know where heād be had we never met. I think heād be better off just because itās such a pain in the ass taking care of me. Heās spent so much money on me that itās not even ok. I āoweā him thousands of dollars. And thatās just what I actually asked for in small sums. Count the gas he used to see me constantly, the gifts he buyās, the food he has fed me, the roof heās put over my head, the clothes on my back, the shoes on my feet, the gas on my car and every other essential Iām forgetting to mention. He says that I fulfill the emotional needs a human being needs to be happy on the regular, but thatās probably all I have to contribute. I love him, Iām addicted to him chemically and he is to me as well. Itās a wonderful thing really, but too much of something is just as bad as nothing at all. The whole reason I want to be a better person is for him. I do try. At least I think I try. Obviously itās not enough.
Iām not sure what I think of changing history now. Maybe Iād like to be like the Doctor and just go around and changing things for the benefit of other people. Thatās a risky thing to do though, with the whole butterfly effect and all. Maybe I could control my own life with conscious knowledge, but whatās to say I help some kid that turns out to be worse than Hitler at some point in history. And then it could all just spiral down from there. Who knows?
As far as changing my life goes, I think thatās why Iām writing. Iām trying to empty my mind and force myself to confess the darkness within my thoughts. Maybe seeing here in solid will wake me up to the realization that I HAVE to change. Like just now. Writing the thought of time travel is bluntly ridiculous, and likely impossible anyway. So I begin to steer away from that thought and start fading into the idea of changing the present instead.
I want to begin my confessions. I feel the weight on me just thinking about it. I donāt want the people to know. Iād be locked up for sure. There are some people who should know, who need to know really. But knowing the type of people they, it scares me. My dad, for one, needs to know so he can shut his fucking mouth about all the bullshit he says about me. Iām far worse than he could imagine. But I donāt want him to know because then heād have more reasons to talk bullshit about me. Or yell at me, and then suppress my siblings even more in hope they donāt turn out like me. Which will ultimately result in them being worse than me. How do I know? Cuz thatās exactly what he did with me.
Itās weird ya know. He is such a strict parent, yet I had all the liberty of freethinking. I always thought he left me to learn life on my own, and I was free to form my own opinions. To make it more clearly, I thought he purposely allowed this. Thatās not the case though. At least, I donāt think so. Itās hard to tell now. See, I grew up observing the world from a corner. I was never like other people, and I really want to be. As time passed and scenarios changed, I began to observe different kinds of people, and I started to come to the realization that we are all different. I thought it was the most fascinating thing ever. So many people and all so different, yet very much the same. I also began to realize that I was a special kind of different and that most people around me didnāt like that. So, I took everything I knew about the good kind of different, and I let myself become that. I wasnāt until recently that I discovered exactly what had been going on in my mind up till now.
For some odd reason (drugs) I was able to step out of my mind and look at myself the same way I look at other people. Add to the concoction the recent feud with my dad and you get exactly whoās typing this shit right here. What happened exactly? Well, Iād like to type the whole story but Iām not sure I can take it. Iāll try the short version, and maybe later go in to detail.
In April of this year I began to work with my dad in a mechanic shop. It only lasted a few weeks though. On a Friday our boss brought us a vehicle that needed emergency repairs, that was already fucked up because he had given it to another mechanic shop he does business with, and they couldnāt figure out how to do the job. So I was actively trying to figure out what the hell they had done, and how to fix that before proceeding to fix the actual problem, when our boss handed us our checks and said Ā I needed to cut back my hours because he was paying me too much for barely any work. And that I needed to just stick to basic fluid changes and cleaning work. Aside from pissed I was distraught. He cut my hours from 8 to 4 a day.
So one of the things that make me a special kind of different, is paranoid schizophrenia. Imagine my head the fallowing weekend? In bed, curled up, crying and trying to deal with the issue. I made up the excuse of being sick, and didnāt return to the shop the fallowing week. I constantly texted asking if he needed me, partially to reassure him I wanted to be there, but mostly to hear him say he did want me there in order to silence the neigh saying voices. Didnāt work. I ended up just bailing altogether from the shop.
I donāt want to talk about this right now. Iām start getting the bad thoughts in my head and I havenāt been dealing with them well lately.
Ā I want to talk about the bad thoughts though. While mainly being suicide, there are many far more grotesque than that. In this instance though, I want to address suicide. Precisely, the attempts at it Iāve made. In my life there have been moments I wanted to die so bad that taking my own life was the most glorious idea I thought I ever had. The first time, was a conflict with my stepmoms sister. An instance in which she had told me I didnāt belong to that family. My initial reaction was violence, and while beating her against a wall, the rest of the family was trying to pull me off of her. They didnāt succeed and I basically just stopped when I felt like I had done enough. She was bleeding some, and I mostly just left bruises. 12 year oldās donāt have much force, Iād say.
I thought it was over after that, but suddenly the whole family turned against me, even though it was her fault. I began to believe what she had said, because now I felt it from everybody else there. I went up to the roof, jumped to the abandoned house next door and sat in one of the unfinished rooms left on the roof. I was crying my eyes out silently. Waiting for the voices to begin. They didnāt come though. It was as if they were satisfied with the amount of pain I was in. I wanted to die more than anything in the world. I begged god to take me away. Thatās when I saw the broken bottle, in a far corner of the room. āWow! Even god agreesā I thought to myself. So I picked up a piece and sat back down where I was. I hesitated for a bit, but then I just swiped the glass over my wrist and watched the blood flow. It was oddly soothing. The visual left me in bliss as I let myself fall asleep.
I woke up to my name being shout out. I didnāt open my eyes though. I kept my forehead on my folded arms over my knees. Next thing I knew my stepmom was beside me shaking me. I was to weak to move, and I didnāt want to anyway. She called out for her brother, and he ran to us. He picked me up and carried me out. Itās pretty obvious what happened then. Doctor, stitches. Life. No one spoke of it ever again. I donāt even know who knew about it. I ran away to my grandfatherās house after that.
The next times werenāt quite as eventful. After figuring out for the first time that you donāt want to live, you basically just let go and try as many times and ways as possible. I tried bashing my head in with a rock. I jumped in front of a motorcycle, and literally got out of that with a scratch. I swallowed a ton of pills, but not the right kind. I ended up just having to go to the ER for a stomach pump before my gut exploded. Kind of didnāt wanna die that way ya know. I slit my wrist once more, but not deep enough. Which gave me time to think before giving the final slash. The last attempt during that time, was jumping from the second story of a building. How the fuck I got out of that unharmed, I have no clue. I kinda justĀ gave up after that. I was 14 then. My 15th year was actually quite ok, but I had turned to self-harm to keep myself happy. The physical pain gave me an escape for a while. It was like a drug. Then it became a trend somehow. I saw girls all over school showing off their scars. You should know, I was mostly secluded from the internet and the whole culture from early 2000ās. So I hadnāt seen or understood most of modern teen culture. I did know that I didnāt wanna be like those girls, so I stopped my addiction and let my wounds heal. That was a mistake though. It really was an effective method of keeping myself feeling happy.
I started to lose myself, and attempted to slit my wrist once again. I had learned somehow that deep, swift and diagonal was the most effective technique. My mistake was doing it on school grounds.I hid underneath one of the buildings, right under the stairs. No one ever went there. It was usually where id sit between periods or at lunch. Right as I was about to slash, someone walked by, saw me, and yelled at me. I looked up in panic and missed my arm completely. Instead I ended up slicing my leg open. Which in hindsight was probably better. The guy ran over and helped me get to the nurses office, and made up some excuse about a loose metal stair piece. He became one of my best friends and helped me through some shit.
Iād like to say that was the last time, but about two years ago, I tried it again. Same thing. Cut wrists. But My Choo found me, and patched me up. Sadly, those are the scars that stayed visible. They remind me of my survival, but also of my torment. I still have thoughts, but Choo is the only reason I stay alive. He says I have much to live for and I matter to plenty of people. I wouldnāt leave him like that. I love him to much to cause him such pain. I feel this way so extensively that I refuse to take a bullet for him. Iād rather live my life without him, than let him go through the pain of me being gone. I would not die for him because that is selfish. Iād live for him, because that is love, and that is strength.
